Finding the Sky
by Maiden of the Moon
Summary: They had been trapped in the darkness, but he shows them the sky.
1. Dawn

**Disclaimer:** As always, I own nothing.

**Author's Note:** Since we haven't gotten much in the way of back-story for the servants, I thought I'd do a little writing exercise on their behalf. :3

**Somewhat Important:** The title is a bit of a pun. Ciel's name means "sky" in French.

**More Important: **These were all written BEFORE the subbed release of episode 21. Actually, I still have yet to see episode 21— all I know is that it revolves around the servants. So if anything in this collection is contradicted by the anime… well, that's why.

**XXX**

**Finding the Sky**

**XXX**

"You're pathetic."

She can't deny it. A tattered dress, old stains, dirt smudges and bruises… she keeps her hunched back pressed lightly to the cool brick of the alley wall, allowing the ice of the stone to sooth her battered body. A trickle of blood swirls lazily down the pale curve of her thigh; her half-exposed breasts tremble with each shallow breath. Curled mats of off-auburn hair tickle her neck, hanging limply in the stagnant, sour air.

No, she certainly can't deny it. And if it's reached the point that a mere child can spot how horribly worthless she is, then things have become far worse than she'd ever dared imagine.

The little boy before her—at least, she thinks it's a boy—makes some sort of move (a shift of the hip?) and snorts in the wake of her silence. "Aren't you even going to stick up for yourself?"

She thinks about it for a moment. Stick up for herself? She might have, once upon a time. But she can hardly remember those days, anymore… Instead, she shrugs listlessly and toys with two fingers, trying to ignore the persistent and unending ache radiating from her womanhood. "Why bother arguing the truth?"

There's an impatient taping noise on the cobblestone. It sounds like… a cane? Could this child be a nobleman? There _is_ a certain arrogance in his condescending voice; she resists the useless urge to squint in an attempt to confirm her suspicions.

"If you know it to be true," the boy drawls, his words heavy with irritation and disgust, "then why don't you _do_ something about it?"

"Like what?" she returns flatly, resting her chin on her knees. "There isn't much in the way of work for weak, orphaned women who can't see."

Another haughty huff. "That sounds like complacency to me. You're just making excuses. You _must_ have other talents besides selling yourself."

He pauses. She assumes to take a better look at her, for when he next speaks she doesn't need her eyes to see his leer.

"…though I'm not sure I'd consider you incredibly skilled at what you do, taking your current state into account. Still, your eyes don't work properly, so the rest of you is useless?"

"_I'm not useless_." The retort leaps from her lips before she can stop it; she wraps her frail arms around her emaciated legs and curls into a tighter ball, as if trying to hide from the nobleman's piercing gaze. And maybe that is wise… because his stare seems to make something within her snap, and before she knows it her throbbing face is wet with tears, and she is whimpering secrets she thought she'd take to the grave. "But… I am pathetic. I mean, I'm _thankful_ that I can't see. That way, I don't see their faces… and I can't remember them."

Silence. For a moment, she thinks the boy has finally gone on his way, but no—instead, he's taken a graceful step closer, kneeling before her.

His hazy face wavers ethereally in her weak, watery vision.

"But if you _could_ see," he whispers, almost in her ear, the words sweet and laced with a bitter poison, "you wouldn't be in this mess to begin with. Doesn't that make you hate God?"

She hiccups once, wiping her nose on the back of her thin hand. "Hate God?" she echoes tremulously. For the sake of the conversation, though, she considers his question. "I don't… I guess I don't think about God all that often."

A chuckle. It sounds far too dangerous to come from the mouth of a child, and yet… "Wise of you. He doesn't listen, anyway."

The creak of a cane, the tip-tap of wooden heels. The swish of a cloak that seems to be heading for the main street.

But then the child hesitates again.

"…if I were to offer you a spider's thread," he suddenly asks, eyes returning to the mangled teenager, "what would you do?"

_Spider's thread? _The girl blinks twice in rapid, bewildered succession. "Excuse me?" she squeaks, tilting her head in confusion. And while she hates herself for not knowing what he's talking about, she hopes that he doesn't hate her. She hopes that he doesn't get angry. She hopes that he doesn't hurt her…

"I'm in the market for a maid," the boy continues, ignoring her attempts at seeking clarification, as well as her obvious fears. "And London could do with one less prostitute. You'd work hard in the Phantomhive House, but you'd receive shelter and food and a wage as compensation. Plus the added bonus of never having to act like a strumpet again."

He waits for an answer, acting about as patient as any other child who has decided that he wants something _now_. That is, not very. But her mind has long-since stopped—frozen upon hearing the name Phantomhive. She was being offered work in the Phantomhive House? _The _Phantomhive House? _Her?_

"…me?" Her pasty, wrinkled brow smoothes over in surprise, pretty pink lips falling open in shock. "B-but I… I can't…" Her fingers instinctively leap to her eyes, as if ashamed that they continue to sully her face.

But the child is over such excuses. "Easily fixed," he sighs, sounding bored. "Sebastian."

And from the dingy shadows, a voice like that of God purrs in sweet reply.

"Yes, my Lord."

Before she can move, react, or make any sort of noise in protest, two cold strips of metal brush against her pallid temples, and something heavy falls to rest upon the bridge of her nose. For the first, initial moment, she tries to fight— the last thing she wants is someone _else_ touching her— but then…

Behind the glass, her eyes widen.

"_Oh…!_" The world. The city. The alleyway around her. She can _see it_. Everything is opening up to her: no longer are there only shapes and colors and vaguely defined lines, but _objects. _Things_. People._

People…

Quivering with poorly suppressed emotion, the stunned girl looks up; the young boy towers above her, pompous and lazy and frowning faintly, watching her with an eye as blue as a sapphire. He is small and thin and as beautiful as a girl, bedecked in velvet and finery and _oh, _so perfectly lovely that a fresh round of tears begin sliding down her cheeks: tears that fall like round, shining pearls, shattering against the grimy ground.

_Can he be God?_

"Do you have a name?" the boy asks quietly, radiating a maturity and intelligence that far exceeds his years.

"I…" She gulps back another loud sob, falling forward and onto her knees. "I… well, it's… it's M—Maylene…"

"Hm." He offers her a small smirk—encouraging and confident. "Well, then, come, Maylene. You have a great deal of work ahead of you… Those glasses weren't free, you know."

**XXX**


	2. Midday

**Disclaimer:** Nope.

**Author's Note: **I suppose, in theory, I could have just done this as a one-shot in four parts, but I like the finality of each portion being its own chapter.

By the way, these first three chapters go in no particular order. That is, they could be mixed up and still read the same. Since I don't really know who Ciel got first, servant-wise…

**XXX**

**Finding the Sky**

**XXX**

"We've arrested those who did this to you."

Silence.

"They will be put to death, in the name of Her Majesty."

Silence.

"Unless you have anything else you wish to testify, we will be turning you over to the doctors of the local hospital."

Silence.

The child before him—lounging on a rickety chair as if it were a throne— scowls into the hush, visibly losing whatever small amount of patience he had. A slim hand balls beneath his sharp chin; his fine silks hiss as he leans forward, frustration in his one-eyed glare.

"Are you just going to sit here forever, then?" he demands coldly, nose wrinkling in distaste. "Sit among your dead and rotting fellows until the Grim Reaper comes for you, too?"

From amongst the decaying pile of old flesh and brown blood, the ashen blonde shivers, naked and cold and scared to the point of numbness. He tightens his hold around his own knees; within the rancid shadows and overwhelming gloom of the iron room, his white, scarred body seems to glow…

The boy snorts, standing in a huff. "Nothing will change, even if you stay here," he snaps, marching forward. His small form wavers in the weak, rosy candlelight, until he seems more like an illusion than a person. An angel of darkness, who continues to float forward until he is hovering directly before the shivering prisoner. "These corpses will remain dead. You and your body will remain forever changed. The past cannot be reversed, and history cannot be altered. Only you can grab the spider's thread and pull yourself out of this hell."

Pale blue eyes blink slowly; a trembling chin tilts backwards. Two gazes meet: one irritated, the other terrified.

"…I can't," the blonde finally whispers, his voice shaking as if about to break. "I… I can't remember anything besides this place. I don't know anything else. I'm… I'm scared to leave it."

The child's face falls flat. He looks as if he wants to reach out and shake some sense into his half-dead companion, but somehow manages to fight off the impulse. "So you want to just sit here and waste away, then," he sneers, fingers curling into fists. "Fine. I wish you the bes—"

But as he turns to leave, a hand shoots out. A hand that grabs, yanks, squeezes… The hold would have been enough to shatter the little one's flesh and bone, but within the span of an eye-blink, the boy has been pushed away. In his place stands a tall man in black, whose wrist is as hard as diamond…

But the prisoner does not notice, for his stare is still locked with the one-eyed boy's, and as long as he's made the boy stop, he does not care who has been trapped within his crushing grip.

"_I don't want to sit here and waste away_," he cries—quickly, loudly, breathlessly, desperately. His ice-blue eyes are melting, water streaming from their rippling depths. "I'm scared, but I… For years, I've wanted… I've wanted to see the sun again."

The hand around the mysterious wrist tightens. Even the diamond feels as if it might splinter.

"I remember…" the young man whimpers, quivering upon the greasy ground, "how warm it used to be… how bright. Sometimes remembering it was the only thing that got me through… but it's been so long now… I'm afraid that if I leave, I'll find out the sun was only a dream… and that everywhere is as dark as…"

He hiccups.

The child's surprised expression morphs back into one of mild exasperation. "I can assure you, the sun is very real," he drones, resisting the urge to rake irritated fingers through his hair. "Its bright, its hot… almost annoyingly so, at times. In fact, it's up right now, if you want to go out and see it."

The blonde freezes, visibly torn between wonder, desire, and trepidation.

And as the child watches these emotions play across the other's face, a thought seems to occur to him. "In fact…" he drawls, lazily meandering back over to the blonde, crouching down so that they can see eye-to-eye, "I can give you something even better."

The blonde swallows thickly. "'Better'…?"

"Better than a quick glimpse of the sun and a trip to the sanatorium," the younger one clarifies, a glitter of twisted amusement in his dark cobalt gaze. "How about a job?"

"Job?" the prisoner repeats, licking dry lips. "For me? But what could I…?"

"I've been looking for a groundskeeper," the boy smirks, tapping his cane rhythmically against the cobbled floor. "A gardener of sorts. I'll provide you with shelter, food, and money, and you will be able to spend as much time as you want in the sun. How about it?"

The blonde's eyes widen; his heart pounds; his shoulders tremble as he takes a deep, shuddering breath. A single, tense minute passes between them.

"…this is the spider's thread you spoke of, isn't it, Earl of Phantomhive?" the young man then murmurs, the words more statement than question.

In response, the small Earl grins. "Will you grab hold of it?" he questions softly, gloved fingers gently grazing the prisoner's lifted chin. There is a quiet _taunt_ in his voice.

A pause.

And then Finnian nods.

**XXX**


	3. Dusk

**Disclaimer:** Nada on my part.

**Author's Note:** Part three! The hardest part, in my book. I don't feel like I have as good of a grasp on Bard's character as I do on the other two… Oh well. Here we go!

**XXX**

**Finding the Sky**

**XXX**

"I suppose that tastes better than it appears to?"

He looks up slowly, languidly, his head lolling back and forth as if in time to a tipsy, unheard melody. Then he sniggers, taking another long swig from his tankard. "I don't remember sayin' you could sit there, lil' boy…"

The child, unfazed, crosses one thin leg over the other, and somehow manages to look like royalty upon the filthy tavern bench. "I doubt you could remember your own name, right now," said child returns frostily, smoothing down his velvet finery. "According to the other patrons, you come in here every night, drink until dawn, stagger off—apparently to some street corner," he tacks on wryly, his single azure eye flitting over the man's gruff appearance—, "then repeat the process the next day."

The ragged drunkard grunts. "Your point?"

"I thought, perhaps, you could help me," the boy drawls, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a letter. A quick glance is all one needs to notice the official seal; the older man shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "I'm looking for a criminal of sorts. There has recently been a large number of purse-snatchings and the like in this area. Do you recall seeing anyone suspicious within the past few weeks?"

The child smiles—a dark smile, like that of a snake—and his tablemate finds it difficult to meet his eyes. "I don't remember anythin'," he mumbles, slouching over and around his sweating mug of ale.

A thin eyebrow arches; the grin widens at the irony. "Yes, that's what I figured."

The tall blonde stiffens at the mocking tone; with some difficulty, he manages to look up and pierce the child with an unfocused glare. "Don't you cop that attitude with me, _boy_," he spits, bringing a heavy hand down upon the wooden table. "You know _nothin'_ 'bout what I've been through..."

In response, the boy' black amusement grows. He rests his chin against two interlaced hands, leans forward, and has the audacity to smirk. "Then enlighten me," he challenges softly, and the other can't ignore the shiver that shoots down his spine at the invitation. There's something strange about this child, and his soldier's instinct warns him of danger… "What benefits come from excessive weight gain, memory loss, bad breath, and general nausea?"

He swallows audibly. "It's worth it to dull the pain."

"Oh?" A head tilt, a low chuckle. "The pain of what, exactly?"

His visible eye—ocean blue—seems to blacken… and the older man thinks that he might drown if he doesn't open his mouth and speak.

"The memories," he confesses, fingers tightening around the handle of his glass. He twists to the side, gaze on the floor, wishing this frightening enigma of a child would just leave him alone. But instead, he continues to talk, and the boy stays to listen. "If I don't drink… otherwise, the bombs… the fighting… I can see it all, whenever I close my eyes…"

Silence.

And then a sigh, and the building pressure seems to deflate. When he next dares to look up, the boy has already turned away, wearing an expression of faint annoyance. "I really should talk to Her Majesty about better care for the soldiers," he complains, in a dismissive tone that only serves to add insult to injury. "As it is, your current behavior— while to an extent understandable— is an embarrassment to the crown and to England itself."

This said, the child yawns.

In an instant, fury fills the older man: dark and bitter and fueled by alcohol. He leaps to his feet with a wavering clatter, fists falling heavily upon the tabletop. "_I'm_ embarrassing—?!" he begins, but stops short when he realizes he's being ignored. The boy, rather than listen to his fuming retort, has turned to a looming shadow beside him, and is speaking coolly.

"Sebastian," he commands, pointing to his tablemate's tankard. "Get me one of those."

The man stiffens. "Wh— what?" he gawks, bewildered as the well-dressed servant bows and vanishes, apparently off to fulfill his master's request. "Wait—a child like you can't—"

The boy closes his eye lightly, unmoved by the other's sudden concern. "Perhaps I've got memories I'd like to dull, myself."

Even as the smaller one speaks, the older blonde is shaking his head; he plops back down upon his own wooden seat, noticeably shivering. "No, you're too young—nothing _that_ bad could—"

"You know nothing of what I've been through." The words are flat, sardonic… and, just moments ago, his own, he realizes. Of course, that had obviously been the intention; even _he_ can tell that much, despite the drunken fog obscuring his hazy mind. But, at the same time, there is a cold and bitter truth coloring the child's monotonous drone… he doesn't miss the way the boy's bejeweled fingers have clenched, manicured nails grinding into his flesh.

"Still, you're just a kid," he protests, however weakly. "There's got to be a better way—"

The eye immediately snaps back open, and the man can't help but feel as if he's gotten himself tangled in an unbreakable web. "Really?" the boy all but purrs, humor glittering in his gaze. "Then wasting your life away in a bar seems a stupid thing to do, don't you think?"

He has no response for that. And so the child continues with a faint hum.

"We both know that the one I'm looking for is you," he declares, allowing his head to fall lightly against the back of a hand. "After the war and your life as a soldier was over, you had no way of supporting yourself. You stole, cheated, and swindled money from anyone you could… but due to your knowledge of combat, weaponry, and evacuation techniques, the idiots at Scotland Yard had a difficult time capturing you. It hasn't helped that you've been on the run since May… One might say you grabbed a spider's thread and held onto it with all your might. Either way, I'm ashamed to say that I was put on your case and am now here to arrest you."

A pause.

Neither moves.

The boy's brow slowly arches, and he tilts his face to the side. "Isn't this your cue to start running again, Mr. Bardroy?"

Despite himself, the older blonde laughs: sadly, heavily, pulling long fingers through mussed hair. "Why bother? You'll just find me again. And it's not like anyone will miss me while I'm in jail, or as if I'll miss the outside world. I mean, I don't even know what to do with myself _now_. I never wanted to steal or any of that… but the way of war is all I know. And drinking is the only thing that makes me forget that, if just for a while. And now…" He sighs, pushing his tankard away. "At least someone has finally broken the cycle."

The child hums once more, softly, as if in bored acknowledgement, and watches with careful eyes as the older man stands and stretches, offering a small smile. "Well?" the captive says, almost encouragingly. "You going to arrest me here, or take me to the streets, first?"

A thoughtful silence. And then: "Neither. I'd rather take you to Phantomhive Manor."

A beat. The words sink in. The man freezes. "…excuse me?"

"There is more than one way to heal the wounds caused by old memories, you know," the boy murmurs, noiselessly clamoring to his feet. At full height, he only reaches the elder man's hip… "More than one way overcome an old way of life."

A taunting smirk touches his small, white face. "Or, as the old saying goes, more than one way to skin a cat. Isn't that right, Sebastian?"

The blonde blinks, startled; at some point, without his notice, the shadow of a man had returned to the boy's side. He is wearing a smile that looks tainted by unspeakable irritation. "…as you say, Young Master."

_Huh? What was that about? But— no, more importantly… _The older man forcibly blocks the strange exchange from his mind, choosing instead to focus on the parts that pertain to him. "Wait, what are you saying?"

The boy, still chortling as if at some private joke, allows his haunting, one-eyed gaze to slide back upon his prey.

"Have you ever cooked before, Bard?"

**XXX**


	4. Midnight

**Disclaimer:** Nothing here!

**Author's Note: **Woo-hoo! I (technically) finished a chapter fic. (Is it sad how proud of myself I am right now? Haha.) Just one more servant to acknowledge… Enjoy! X3

**PS.** Tanaka doesn't get a chapter because he was hired by Ciel's _father_, not Ciel himself. (Or so I'm assuming, since he seems to have been around at the time of the fire.)

**XXX**

**Finding the Sky**

**XXX**

Ciel's forehead hits his desk with an audible _thump_, and he serenades the sound with the longest, loudest, most exasperated sigh that Sebastian has ever heard escape those young lips. "…do I even want to know?" the young boy grumbles, lifting his face with as much dignity as he can muster. "The last time you updated me on their activities, Maylene was using shoe polish on the dishware, Finny had accidentally thrown a tree through a window, and Bard was cooking a salad with his flamethrower. I believe the phrase 'ignorance is bliss' was created specifically for situations such as these. Please. For the sake of my sanity, allow me to stay ignorant."

In response, the black-clad butler offers a soft chortle, a slight bow, and a polite smile that does nothing to mask his obvious amusement. "My deepest apologies, young master," he says amiably, "but as the head of this household, it is only right for you to be informed of minor details such as these."

Ciel groans quietly, steepling his fingers atop his desk. He isn't fooled; he knows this is the demon's revenge for his having hired the others in the first place. And, perhaps, for a crack he once made about skinning cats. "Sometimes I don't know why I put up with those three…" the child mutters, leaning back in his gilded chair.

Sebastian's smirk lengthens as he stands, taking his usual place at the boy's left side. "It is because the young master is so kind-hearted, I'm sure, that he welcomed those three so graciously into his home, faults and all."

The young earl levels his servant a cold glare. "You of all people should know that I am not kind," he snaps, laced hands clenching.

A confirmatory hum. "If that is the case, young master, then you are incredibly pathetic," Sebastian decrees in a purr, leaning forward just enough to allow his employer to _feel_ him there: lingering like a silhouette with form and scent and touch. "You see yourself in those three, do you not? Maylene's weakness and loneliness, Finnian's brutal torture, Bard's desire to escape from the memories of his violent past. Deep in your heart, you wanted to save them: save them like you wish someone had saved you…"

As the demon breathes sweetly into his pinking ear, the child's lip trembles; it has soon curled upward in a visible show of fury. With a hiss and a spin, Ciel pierces his butler with a frigid glower. "_I need no saving_," he snarls, blue eye flashing in stubborn vehemence. The man beside him returns the stare, unbothered and indifferent.

"I am happy to hear you say that," Sebastian returns calmly, as if amused by his master's wrath. But within the next few moments, his soft eyes have narrowed, and his long leer has widened, and he is whispering into the silence of the sunny study: "Because you will _never_ be saved."

Neither speaks for a full minute. But then, there is no need to: nothing has been said that is either untrue or debatable.

A breath. Ciel stands, turns his back to his desk, and walks briskly towards the bay windows. "That's fine," he murmurs as he does so, face deadpan and voice dull. He cannot be, will not be, refuses to be afraid. "I have risen above all of that."

He hears his butler bow again, though the rustle of his fine clothes is almost imperceptible in the hazy hush of the room. "Very true," Sebastian agrees, black humor in his words. "The young master _has_ risen. Not only has he risen above his own hell, but he has freed those three as well: opened the world to them, and shown them the sky. But the young master has no need to see the sky, himself. Not when he _is_ the sky…"

The boy shoots his servant a flat-faced stare. "…is that supposed to be a joke, Sebastian?"

Sebastian chortles softly, straightening with another beguiling grin upon his face. "More of a pun, young master."

"A pun." Ciel shakes his head, disgusted. "Get back to work," he coldly commands, waving a hand as if to shoo away a pesky pet.

"Yes, my lord."

Instantaneous, crisp, and steady footfalls echo, bouncing off the polished wood of the study floor; Ciel keeps his eyes on the sky beyond the paned glass window, his attention diverted until he hears the far doors open. And then—

"Young master."

The boy turns slightly, his gaze catching the butler's— now standing half-in and half-out of the sunlit room. The younger of the two quirks a prompting eyebrow.

"What?"

A pause.

"I am no different than the others, you know," the servant then proclaims, tilting his head in unspoken amusement. "The young master and I are very much alike."

Ciel scowls. "What on earth are you going on about?" he demands, weary impatience coloring his voice.

"When we first met," Sebastian clarifies, beaming in that veiled way of his. "You saw something of yourself in me, didn't you? Just as you did your other servants. After all, we were—and are— both hungry, are we not?"

Thin lips leer; a knotted stomach drops. From across the lengthy study, all but swallowed by shifting shadows, the demon's gaze turns a lusty, ruby red.

"We simply hunger for different things, that's all."

A low and silky chuckle…

The doors close with a silent snap.

**XXX**


End file.
